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SONGS WHILE WANDERING 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

MEMORY 

POEMS OF WAR AND LOVE 

"War and love have always been the 
theme that poets oftenest embroider; 
in the experiences of the last four 
years they have come to dominate 
our poetry altogether. From the men 
who fought we have their hot person- 
al reactions of determination, horror 
and the poignant longing for home 
contacts. A. Newberry Choyce, a 
young English lieutenant, writes of 
them with somewhat the simplicity 
and flavor of Rupert Brooke's war 
sonnets.'' — The Independent, 

Cloth, j2mo, $1.00 net. 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 

Publishers New York 




A. NEWBERRY CHOYCE 
Lieutenant, The Leicestershire Regiment 



SONGS 
WHILE WANDERING 



BY 

A. NEWBERRY CHOYCE 

UEUTENANT, THE LEICESTERSHIRE REGIMENT 

author of 
"memory, poems of war and love," 

"CRIMSON STAINS/* ETC. 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

MCMXIX 



,6 



n. 






Copyright, 1919, 
By John Lane Company 



Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 

New York. U. S. A. 



©GI.A5J5642 



TO 

ENGLAND 

AND HER GLORY 
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 



America t igig 



Contents 

PAGE 

England ii 

The Wanderer 14 

Atlantic Crossing 15 

Vision 17 

Confidante 19 

Triolet 20 

The Crows 22 

EXTASE 26 

Lilith's Laughter 27 

Star Valley 28 

What Have You Done ? 31 

One Day I Shall Surely Come! . . 33 

My Life . 35 

The Slave 37 

From Far Away 38 

It Is a Dream 40 

Lines to Watah-waso, Princess . . 41 

Sunset on Mississippi 44 

When You Come 45 

Resolve 48 

Peacocks 50 

Realisation 54 

A Cowboy 55 

Poppies 57 

I Think 58 

Sloes 59 

7 



Contents 

PAGE 

For Pity 62 

Britannia's Transports 63 

The Riddle 65 

What Is My Gain! 67 

In Parting 70 

Night 71 

Your Song for Me 72 

"To Have and to Hold'' .... 74 

Dawn 75 

Before Sleeping 77 

Rowan Trees 78 

In Desolation 85 

Santa Fe Trail 86 

If a Robin Sang To-day 89 

"In THE Valley OF THE Shadow" . . 91 

To One Faithless 93 

A Ranch 94 

Judas 96 

For Both of Us loi 

To THE Leicestershire "Tigers" , . 103 

Salt Lake City 104 

At the Last 107 

Glory 109 

Fire-flies no 

Rocky Mountains 114 

Peace 116 

To One Claimed 118 

The Far-off Isles 119 

Experience 121 

My Wandering Soul 123 

8 



SONGS WHILE WANDERING 



SONGS 
WHILE WANDERING 

England 

A little island held so close 
By the softly swelling sea, 
Which you call home and England. 

And oh! how Morning wakens there 
With shimmering sunlight in her hair. 
Laughing lightly en the hills, 
Moving peacefully 
Until she spreads across the lawn 
That stretches to the sea. 
Hand in hand with whispering Dawn 
Watch them wandering on the hills, 
II 



Songs While Wandering 

See them sweeping to the sea! 
While the shadows as they pass 
Steal away among the grass; 
And every bird is wide awake 
To sing a song for Dawn's sweet sake. 
Dawn and Morning, hand in hand, 
Creeping o'er a glorious land 
Which you call home and England. 

And oh ! how lingering twilight falls 
Soft among her stately walls. 
One last gleam of sunshine dying, 
And a purple light 
Beautiful, where lanes are lying 
Waiting for the night. 
One last song from some lone bird. . . 
Never sweeter theme was heard! 
All about a little land 
12 



England 

Guarded by a golden strand 
Which you call home and England. 

A little island held so close 
By the softly swelling sea ; 
But held how close in every heart 
That learns the love of thee! 



13 



The Wanderer 

''And you shall have a dozen pearls 
Threaded upon a silken string; 
And rubies like the eyes of gods 
When I am back from wandering." 

I watched his little boat pass by 

To where the grey waves kissed the sky. 

And now his pearls are round my throat 
My finger wears his ruby ring . . . 
But ah ! his lips are not so warm 
Since he is back from wandering. 



H 



Atlantic Crossing 

The little song that you sing to me . 

Seems part of the sea's own melody. 

(We are alone, just you and I). 

It is late . . . you wanted to see the moon. 

Have you heard that we come to harbour soon? 

(How swiftly the stars and the sea slip by!) 

Churned in the wonderful waves below, 
Clusters of phosphorus fishes glow. 
(How swiftly the stars and the sea slip by!) 
And we who have just a remaining day 
15 



Songs While Wandering 

Are silently staring our dreams away . . . 
(We are alone, just you and I). 

Alone, alone, just you and I . . . 

My soul ! . . . how the stars and the sea slip by ! 

April, 19 1 8. 



16 



Vision 

I know a lovely country place 
Where Life is full of happy hours, 
Made wonderful by singing birds, 
And bees that sway among the flowers. 

There Dawn is like a little maid, 
Too shy almost to rise and pass 
For fear her tiny feet should tread 
The glittering jewels in the grass. 

The summer noon is one grand glow 
Of sunshine spread o'er little things; 
But chiefly in the green and blue 
That flashes from the caddis wings. 
17 



Songs While Wandering 

And falling twilight is a dream 
Of fading noises, wondrous sweet; 
Until the early stars peep out 
And Night steals by on silent feet. 

On Sundays people go to Church 
And kneel and hide their awesome eyes; 
But I stroll on along the stream 
And love the hovering caddis flies. 

And when folks meet me coming home, 
They look at me as though to say 
With condemnation in their glance, 
^*You have not been to Church to-day," 

And in their special Sunday clothes 
They pass me with a Sunday nod. 
These narrow souls who never know 
How good has been my glimpse of God. 
i8 



Confidante 

In my garden is a rose 

Swaying lightly on a tree. 

Her leaves are redder than thy lips . 

And she can pity me. 

For I have told her what I feel 
When I but touch thy tiny hand. 
Her leaves are redder than my blood 
So she must understand. 

Alabama* 



19 



Triolet 

Autumn day and a robin sings. 
The splash of crimson on his breast, 
The far faint rustle of his wings 
Sweeps my soul to strange unrest 
And draws me to the heart of things. 

The far faint rustle of his wings 
Stirs through vermilion leaves and gold, 
And draws me to the heart of things 
While Summer's hands are growing cold. 
Autumn day and a robin sings. 

He draws me to the heart of things 
Through woods that wait with half-held breath. 
20 



Triolet 

Autumn day and a robin sings 

A heartache note, a hint of Death 

The far faint rustle of His wings. 

Illinois. 



31 



The Crows 

The crows are on their way to the spinney 

Going home. 

(Ah! would I too might go!) 

Straggling and chattering worn-out stories 

In long lines over the meadows. 

Shouting their last "Good-night" to other birds 

Who live in the fields by the river. 

The poplars are shivering 

Excitedly 

The tale of all day; 

Getting it ready to tell to the moon 

When presently she steals among the leaves 

With silver. 

22 



The Crows 

The flowers by the water's edge 

Are heavily scented 

As if they would give out 

Each remaining breath 

Before dark. 

The haystacks in the barn-yard 

Are white for awhile. 

It is getting very quiet. 

You would call these soft shadows in the lanes 

Peace ... 

With a pale remaining afterglow in the sky; 

And the tiny grey church 

At the top of the hill 

Losing itself in the last light. 

Far away 

At a cottage door, 

23 



Songs While Wandering 

My mother is standing and wondering. 

Soon she will go inside, 

And she will sit down 

And sew ... 

Or read about the war maybe. 



The evening hours will drag; 

But before she sleeps, 

The moon will look in at her window 

And find her standing and wondering again, 

And maybe praying this time 

About the war. 



It is moonlight and the crows are all home, 
Chattering still 

Of what they have done all day. 
24 



The Crows 

(Ah! my mother 
Would I too had come 
To tell my tale!) 

Bardon. 



25 



Extase 

Come soon ! 

To-night brings on our glorious hour 

Planned from eternity. 

The wayside pools are dark and deep 

With sweet strange mystery. 

And now from every dew-drenched flower, 

Sense-stealing perfumes creep 

To make the magic moments swoon 

Divinely, with our Destiny. 

Drawn-out desire has hushed me half asleep . . 

Come soon and waken me! 

Missouri. 

26 



Lilith's Laughter 

With happy laughter Lilith goes 
And spreads her gladness everywhere; 
Her neighbours watch, and smile, and say, 
"Ah ! to be young and have no care. . • ." 

How should they read her otherwise, 
These placid folk who never see 
One moment swept by wild desire . • . 
One hour of unsolved agony! 

Laugh on my Lilith till the end 
As souls like you and I must do. 
God give you grace to drink the dregs 
Of bitter-sweetness mixed for you! 
27 



Star Valley 

{To a Mormon maid who may remember.) 

I found a little valley in the west 
Watered by limpid streams of melting snow; 
And God had spread His Own Abiding Peace 
More in this place than anywhere I know. 

I reached the mountain passes in the dawn, 
Climbing their mighty heights a weary way. 
The red sun followed on an easier track 
And when I saw my valley ... it was day. 

Then as I journeyed downwards I could feel, 
Though still afar, a measure of that rest 
28 



Star Valley 

Which they alone of all the world can know 
Who live in this calm valley of the west. 

And so I came across the meadowland 
Before the flower petals were unfurled; 
And wondered much what made the angels hide 
This copy of God's Heaven from His world. 

The swift days sped ; and by and by my life 
From absolute contentment was not far. 
I found once more the laughter of dead days . . • 
I found the secret place where lost dreams are. 

And in a canyon where the streamlet plashed 
To clear cold pools beneath the mountain shade, 
One wandering day while walking all alone 
I found my sweetest dream ... my Mormon 
maid. 

29 



Songs While Wandering 

She seemed to be a creature of the hills, 
Half-hesitating with a startled air; 
While I could only hold my breath and gaze 
Upon the sudden glory of her there. 

And after that the days sped by more swift. 
We walked the valley meadows, she and I, 
Until I half forgot the outside world 
Beyond the mountain tops that touched the sky. 

Forever now I see those calm clear eyes 

Look into mine when sweetest memories throng ; 

And in my silent soul I hear her sing 

The haunting strain of some Missouri song. 

One day, with many a long and backward glance 

I turned my feet towards the mountain height 

To take again my pathway to the world. 

And when I lost my valley ... it was night. 

Wyoming. 

30 



What Have You Done? 

I cannot rest to-night. . . . 
What have you done to me 
That I am dreaming of your eyes 
So constantly? 

My moments hold their breath 
As if they heard you come 
With light step like a wanderer 
Returning home. 

And little weeping ghosts 

Are stealing round my bed 

To murmur all the smallest things 

You ever said. 

31 



Songs While Wandering 

I cannot rest to-night. . . . 
What have you done to me 
That I am longing for your lips 
So constantly^ 



32 



One Day I Shall Surely Come 

One day I shall surely come 

With swift sails that speed for home. 

One day I shall surely be 

Gliding o'er that little sea 

That keeps England safe for me. 

One day I shall surely stand 

Where the white waves touch the strand. 

One day I shall surely sing 

The story of my wandering 

And the joy of everything. 

One day I shall surely prove 
The wonderment of waiting love. 
33 



Songs While Wandering 

One day I shall surely guess 
All the might of happiness 
That sweetens every small caress. 

One day I shall surely say 
The realest prayer that I can pray; 
In an hour when I shall be 
Speeding o'er that little sea 
That keeps England safe for me. 



34 



My Life 

Far onward o'er the never-ending sands 
The swaying caravans of camels pass, 
And dream of watered oases that He 
With feathered palms above the fresh green 
grass. 

And now and then upon the distant haze, 
Alluringly, the mocking mirage gleams 
Till every camel speeds his padded feet 
To reach that fairyland of flowing streams. 

So onward o'er the desert of my life 
I journey far beneath the sweltering skies, 
Where hour by hour new mirages are spread 
To mock my burdened going with their lies. 
35 



Songs While Wandering 

For when I stretch my hands and think to touch 
The happiness I visioned ... it is gone. 
And I must turn my disappointed eyes 
Towards the sands . • . and journey on and on. 



36 



The Slave 

It IS not right that I should make 
My life a misery for thy sake. 
It is not just that I should be 
Tormented so because of thee. 

Hadst thou not stirred to strange unrest 
The slumbering fires within my breast, 
My nights and days would still remain 
Unconscious of Desire's deep pain. 

So when I think of that dire day 
Which led thy feet along my way, 
I curse its bitter hours, and yet . . . 
Bless that sweet one in which we met. 
37 



From Far Away 

If I could come to-night 
Quietly, 

And take my own little place 
And say, 

''Mother, I am back!" 
You would look up . . . 
Dear God! I can see your eyes. 

Then you would place my tea 
In front of me 
As though it were any day. 
And you would watch me eat 
Like one watches the priest 
Go through the Sacrament. 

38 



From Far Away 

And afterwards 

I would talk ... 

My hand in yours, 

Sitting at your knees 

RestfuUy, 

All the nights and all the days before us. 

I, back in my little place . . . 

Back in your eyes . . * 

Back home! 



Idaho. 



59 



It Is a Dream 

It IS a dream but it is sweet 
To draw you close and hold you fast 
Until you feel my love at last. . . . 
It is a dream but it is sweet. 

To draw you close and hold you fast 
Until you see sincerity 
Steal from the deepest soul of me . . . 
Until you feel my love at last. 

Until we lean with lips that meet; 
And you in one swift space are mine; 
And I in one swift space divine! 
It is a dream . . . but it is sweet. 
40 



Lines to Watah-waso, Princess 

Stand by thy tent, Princess, 

And sing again for me; 

My heart shall hear the whispered strain 

Across the western sea. 

Watah-waso . . . Bright Star! 
Was it some tribal fate 
That let me look into thine eyes 
And understand . . . too late? 

Child of an Indian chief! 
I dreamt a day had come 
That gave my feet the very path 
To find thy forest home. 
41 



Songs While Wandering 

Watah-waso . . . Princess! 
We seemed to stay awhile 
Until the envious twilight crept 
And stole away thy smile. 

Beautiful Indian maid! 
Then, then I held thee fast 
Among the scented forest flowers, 
While all the night rushed past. 

Child of Penobscot chief! 
I woke when dawn had come, 
And ah! my feet had never found 
That pathway to thy home. 

Watah-waso . . . Bright Star! 
How bitter was the fate 
That stirred a sweet song in thy soul 
And made thee sing ... too late! 
42 



Lines to Watah-waso, Princess 

Stand by thy tent, Princess. 

Three thousand miles are far. 

Dark is my night without thine eyes . . • 

Watah-waso . • . Bright Star! 



43 



Sunset on Mississippi 

The sunset was beautiful again to-night 

On Mississippi. 

Flushed clouds 

Edged with a tracery of burning gold. 

Disquieting as I stood. 

I wondered . . . 

I wondered . • • 

Whether, in large soulless cities 

Where so many forget • . • 

You had forgotten. 



44 



When You Come 

Dear! 

Let me tell you 

How I would have you come to me. 

A little quietly, 

As though you were drawing close 

To a moment of moments in your life 

Yet felt afraid 

Lest it turn out to be 

Like others . . . ordinary. 

I would smile, 

As if I understood why you came. 

(Ah! would I indeed not understand!) 

45 



Songs While Wandering 

Then I would have you be 

Silent • • * 

As silent as your eyes would let you be. 

(Heart! I have heard 

The hosts of Heaven were silent 

Once.) 

Afterwards, 

When I could bear it no longer; 

(You so close, so close to me!) 

When the blood rushed to my heart 

With a wild tale, 

Only to find it beating one 

More wild . . . 

Then I would have you speaL 

And you should say, 
'1 have come, 

46 



When You Come 

Do what you will with me." 

And hearing you, 

I would hold my breath 

For a swooning second, 

Like one who has caught the fragrance 

Of June roses 

Suddenly 

In an English garden. 

Then slowly, 

And a little bewildered . . . 
(Heart! one does not rush 
Into a holy place 
Especially 

When all the dreams one ever dreamt 
Dwell there), 
I would answer, 
"Dear! 

Tell me what to do." 
47 



Resolve 

Death came close with stealthy tread 
And argued his wild cause with me; 
Until at last I laid my hand 
Within his own, contentedly. 

And almost had we made complete 
Our little bargain, he and I; 
He would claim my tired bones 
And I gain rest where sick hearts lie. 

But then once more thine earnest eyes 
Became compelling in mine own. 
And Hope stole back with bated breath 
To whisper promises long-flown. 

48 



Resolve 

So will I live to come again 
And argue my wild cause with thee, 
Until thou placest thy small hand 
Within mine own, contentedly. 

4^^ Louis. 



49 



Peacocks 

Do you remember how we came 

One eventide 

Through Clifton Grove . . . 

(I wonder is it still the same!) 

Almost as the sunshine died; 

Strolling, where the swift Trent hurried on 

To reach the town before the day was gone? 

Do you remember how we found 

Those haughty peacocks trailing on the ground 

Their gorgeous tails of green, and gold, and 

blue? 
You longed to see them with their feathers spread, 
50 



Peacocks 

But while I strove 

To get them to perform for you 

Such stately service in the lingering light, 

Advancing towards them most persuasively, 

They simply stared at me indignantly 

And flew 

Up to the branches high above my head, 

Sending their wild cries out to meet the night. 

I copied their alarm, derisively. . . . 

Do you remember how you laughed at me ? 

That was four years ago, 
And I who was a boy then, now am old. 
I have forgotten how the sunset seemed 
Upon the jewelled green and blue 
Or how It gleamed 
On feathers fringed with gold. 
51 



Songs While Wandering 

Yet . . . will you care to know? • . • 

It matters not how far I am away 

Nor through what stranger lands I stray, 

In each returning year 

There comes a day 

When I can hear, 

As plain 

As though we strolled in that glad grove again. 

The peacocks shriek their hate 

In furious disdain 

At one 

Who dare disturb the chosen of the sun, 

Or think to tame. 

And then a boyish impulse urges me 
To imitate 

As once before, in mockery, 
52 



Peacocks 

Their shrill discordant cries. 

And I half turn to see. . . . 

(I wonder is it still the same!) 

The laughter lighting up your lovely eyes. 

Nottingham* 



53 



Realisation 

In the pale pearl haze of a far-off land 

Where the fingers could not touch, 

I lay and made my little plaint 

Of things for which a man might long 

And sicken overmuch . . . 

Because they come not to his hand. 

And then one day my wishes brought 

Fulfilment in their eyes. 

But I ... I could no longer care 

To see the dearest of them there. 

With all their glad surprise, 

Not one held half the joy I sought. 

North Carolina, 

54 



A Cowboy 

Lithe limbs fashioned for a race 
With every wind that sweeps along 
The prairie wilderness. A face 
Of boyish cut, yet firm and strong. 

A mighty heart; a rough hard hand . . . 

I met him under western skies, 

And wondered if in any land 

Than this there lived such calm clear eyes. 

They seemed to hold the mountain height 
And all the distant rolling plain 
Within their depths. They had a light 
Dimmed never yet by sickly pain. 
55 



Songs While Wandering 

A fervent longing filled my breast 
To end my futile wandering here; 
And share the magic of the West 
That makes his eyes so clean and clean 

Montana. 



56 



Poppies 

Give me your flame. 

A dazzling colour flaunted . • . 

A scarlet challenge to a golden sun. 

My zest in Life 

Shall draw desire down to my lips 

And dare its overwhelming with a kiss. 

Then when the sun is winning . . . 
Your petals fading to a crumpled death, 
Your scarlet passion waning: 

Before my vivid joy in Life is gone 
Or my soul sees a shadow of regret • . . 
Give me your sleep. 
57 



I Think 

If I could give a little of my life 
To hear you tell a little love for me, 
I would not care for all the weary miles 
Where I must drift across a lonely sea. 

If I could give a little of my heart 

To show the mighty pity of its pain, 

I think, I almost think that you would care 

And that one day we two might meet again. 



58 



Sloes 

A lane where green hedges hide the sunlight 

Just a little, 

But let It through in gold splashes 

Here and there. 

Hips and haws clustered voluptuously 

In crimson 

On tired boughs. 

And sloes 

Like purple-black eyes 

Staring in millions. 

Silence . . . 

With a foolish, speckled-breasted bird 
Trying to remember a summer song. 
59 



Songs While Wandering 

Failing 

Pitifully but gloriously. 

I look at my watch 
And laugh. 
Then I help him, 
I who not long ago 
Stored his summer theme 
In my heart. 

I laugh 

And look at my watch, 
And pluck the red berries 
Nervously, 

Scattering them in the white dust 
Like drops of blood. 

And I stretch my hand to a branch of sloes 
But they are suddenly indignant eyes 
60 



Sloes 

Daring me to touch them. • . • 
I am kind because of you. 

Clatter of hoofs. ... 
A moment while I dare not breathe, 
And the splashes of sunlight dance wildly 
Over the red spots at my feet. 

Your horse at my side. 

My hand touching your clean straight limbs 

So that you realise 

Each moment of my waiting. 

You! . . . You! . . .You! • • . 
You and your crimson lips! 

God! how the curious sloes stare! 
Ireland, 



6i 



For Pity 

Light a little candle for my Love 

To lead him back to me, 

I would not have him weeping in the dark 

To weary thee. 

Since thou hast no pleasure in his theme, 
For pity it is best 

He store his little faintly fluttering wings 
Safe in my breast. 

Leave the living memory of thine eyes 
To shine upon his way. 
O spare this little candle for my Love 
Who could not stay! 

Georgia. 

62 



Britannia's Transports 

Her transports are all home. 
And men with earnest eyes 
Have gone to take up life again. 
« • • • • • • 

Her transports are all home. 

Not all. . . . 

Not come her phantom ships 

That we lost tidings of. 

Burdened with the price 

She paid for Peace. 

• • • • • • • 

A million silent souls. 

63 



Songs While Wandering 

And all the aching hearts 

That live to love my little England, 

Have gone pitifully 

Dovv^n to the quays 

To watch the phantom ships sail in. 

But they will never see them. 
Never . . . never. 
For sobbing . . . 
For sobbing. . . • 



64 



The Riddle 

I saw your eyes far-off • . . 
How should I ever guess 
The moments drew so close 
To happiness! 

Maybe you did not see 
My glance and all it meant; 
Or did not care to solve 
Its wild intent. 

So sphinxes do not care 
While myriad ages go, 
To solve a mystery 
They only know. 

65 



Songs While Wandering 

I saw your eyes far-off . . . 
How should I ever guess 
The moments drew so close 
To bitterness! 

'New York, 



66 



What is My Gain? 

Little Life, what am I 

To complain? 

With all thy pain 

Thou hast left me space to dream. 

My brother simply slept, and ate, 

And worked . . . and yet he did not seem 

To find his earth too desolate. 

And when we die 

In deep graves sleeping side by side 

So silently 

Both he and I 

Will lie. 

• • • • • 5 t 

And he will be quite satisfied* 

67 



Songs While Wandering 

But my cold grave, however deep, 

Shall never know 

My brother's tranquil rest. 

For in the silence of my sleep 

Disturbing doubts will creep, 

And grieved will be my breast 

By many a worn-out dream of long ago. 

Little Life, what is my gain 

Since thou hast left me space to dream ? 

What IS my gain when time Is sped, 
And when the Still Small Voice hath said 
A Word to rouse His equal dead? 

Lo! let the One who planned thy pain 
Judge then the greatness of my gain 
68 



What Is My Gain? 

Or loss . • . whatever He decide 
I shall be satisfied. 

Thou hast left me space to dream. 
Little Life, know that I 
Do not complain. 



69 



In Parting 

Not any hand shall ever touch me now 
And feel me tremble like a fevered life. 
Not any being ever prompt me how 
To sweeten silence with the one word . . . 
"wife." 

Not any lips shall ever prove to be 

As warm as these which I have loved to press. 

Not any eyes shall ever mirror me 

A path that leads to such sure happiness. 

Not any voice shall whisper, "Let us sleep 
A little, dear, before the dawn winds wake." 
The world will pity all the tears you weep, 
But I shall laugh . . . and suffer for your sake. 
70 



Night 

I watch a gleam of sungold die. 
God sets His first star in the sky. 
And you ... ah ! have you said a word 
I listened for . . • and never heard? 

Indian Summer. 



11 



fYouT Song for Me 

{To a writer of verse.) 

Never among all the songs you sing hereafter, 
Shall one hold half the ecstasy 
Of that small song you sang for me. 

The world will clamour for your songs, 
Imploring of your lute its lofty themes; 
But I shall only ask you this . , • 
To sing that same small one at times for me. 

I heard your early rustling strings. • • . 
It was as though a honeysuckle breath 
Had stolen on me unawares 
From some high hedgerow in an English lane. 
72 



Your Song for Me 

The magic of the hour is on me now, 
And must remain forever while I hold 
The glad and loving fervour of your tale. 

Among your myriad songs, my little one 

Shall shyly hide its head 

And store away 

A soft sigh deep within its heart. 

Yet it shall feel so wonderfully safe 

When it remembers what you mean and meant 

In that first hour you plucked a wakening string, 

To sing from out your soul a thought to me 

Which other men shall hear 

Never, among all the songs you sing hereafter* 



73 



"To Have and . . . to Hold" 

I came upon a flower by the way, 
Closing its petals at the end of day. 
"A few more evenings," to myself I said, 
"And then its faint sweet fragrance will have 
fled/' 

It was a weary memory for me 
That all the stored-up gold in all the world 
Was powerless to keep one little flower 
With its small scented petals still unfurled. 

I saw the puny might of mighty things . . . 
And then I fell to wondering anew 
If all the stored-up love of all my heart 
Would have sufficient worth to keep you true. 
74 



Dawn 

{To my sister Jeanne.) 

Night deepset. 

My lonely vigil in a tortured land. 

Blackness that hides the blood of day; 

And yet . . . 

I touch and hold your hand. 

War lights shuddering up against the sky. 

Dangers that crowd and kill. 

The half-hushed moans of those who die. 

For me as for these other men 
Through every hour the horrors of this place; 
75 



Songs While Wandering 

But then, ah then, 

O sweetest heart! 

With God's good dawn . i « 

Your face. 

''No Man's Landr 



76 



Before Sleeping 

The night is very still. 
Why did you leave me so? 
My room is haunted with your eyes 
That will not go. 

My Life is like a child 

Who sobs himself to rest, 

The burden of a whole wide world 

Within his breast. 

The night is very still. 
Why did you leave me so? 
My heart is haunted with your love 
That will not go. 

77 



Rowan Trees 

(A thought of Charnwood Forest, Leicester- 
shire, England,) 

The sumac leaves are flaming here 

Red and beautiful as sunset blood. 

Ah! at home 

I know just where Autumn will hang 

The finest clusters of scarlet 

On the rowan trees. 

And the children will gather them 
To scatter the roads in play. 
I would not have you see 
The berries crushed underfoot so 

78 



Rowan Trees 

For it is sad. 

Yet the children are happy for awhile. 

(God knows 

I have crushed my share of berries 

Before now; 

And remembered afterwards with pain 

My vividly coloured moments that faded.) 

There are slopes covered with purple heather 

Stretching gloriously 

Right to the dark edges of the pine trees 

That grow in groups. 

(My mother writes, 

"The heather is not so purple this year 

Since you are so far away.") 

You may stand on the summit 
Where the heaps of grey rocks are piled, 
79 



Songs While Wandering 

(How haunting the scent of bruised bracken is!) 

And look down on the white road 

So like a strip of ribbon 

Threading the hills together. 

(Do you not see in the far distance . • • 

Home?) 

And then while the sun is still loving 
The leaves of the farthest-ofi pines, 
We will go, you and I, 
Gently along by the stone-walled path 
Until we come to the monastery. 

Look! 

There they are . . . 
Close to the door of the quiet chapeL 
Scarlet rowan berries. 
Guess how many on a bunch! 
80 



Rowan Trees 

(I remember how proud I was 
When my father asked us once 
And I alone guessed rightly.) 

Do you know, 

Through the open door one day 

I caught a glimpse of a scarlet Cardinal 

From Rome, 

Saying Mass at the High Altar. 

And when he gave the "Ite," 

I looked from him to the rowan tree 

And suddenly felt sorry that he wore scarlet 

Since God out here 

Had used a scarlet brush so well. 

(As though He had painted 

Bunches of beads. 

Which by and by the Cherubim should string 

On flaming rosaries 

8i 



Songs While Wandering 

For hands in Paradise 
That never need to pray.) 

Those steps at the end of the path? . . . 
They lead (I used to know how many) 
To a Calvary high placed. 
I think the monks who climb it every year 
Throughout the Lenten Fast, 
Have weary feet. 
And yet it must be worth it 
For the Master hangs 
High on the hills 
With such a sweet sad Face. 
(I wonder if my rowan berries 
Pain Him with a memory 
Of Judas whom He loved; 
And of the blood He shed 
82 



Rowan Trees 

Along the lanes 

In lone Gethsemane!) 

It IS nearly night. . . • 

Let us gather the sumac branches 

That are so like 

A flame of sunset in the pines. 

If only I could find for you 

Those rowan berries that I scattered 

In my childhood. . . . 

(I know even yet where Autumn paints 

The finest clusters of scarlet • . . 

But that is at home.) 

At home . . . 

Three thousand miles. . . . 

(Ah! now I remember well. 

You have three hundred weary steps to climb 

83 



Songs While Wandering 

Before you reach the Master hanging high, 
And see the sweet sad Face 
That looks across the hills 
At home!) 



84 



In Desolation 

My Life stole by with out-stretched hands 
To find a dream he never knew. 
My Life crept close with eager eyes 
And spoke a little word to you. 

And you . . . you did not care co hear 
The living fervour of his theme. 
And you • . . you did not care to share 
The waking glory of his dream. 

My Life passed on with weary feet. 
His body had no touch of grace. 
But oh! the heartache of his eyes; 
And oh ! the pleading of his face. 

85 



Santa Fe Trail 

{To a brave woman whom I met.) 

I know a woman, a slip of a girl 

Who runs a ranch in the West ; 

Her hands are strong, and her eyes are good . 

And she hides a tale in her breast. 

And when Life threatens to hurt her soul 
With the memory of her woe, 
In the twilight hours she will climb the hill 
Where the yucca bushes grow; 

And stand and watch on the distant slopes 
A procession stern and pale, 
86 



Santa Fe Trail 

Of trader ghosts with determined lips 
Who ride on the Santa Fe trail. 



Hindered and wounded by Indian bands 
Lurking along their way, 
Not Hell itself could prevent such men 
From winning to Santa Fe. 

As they pass her there, they understand 
And their ghost eyes light with pride. 
A tribute bravery gives to the brave. . . . 
Till she turns back satisfied. 

And the stars look out o'er the prairieland 
Where the scented sage winds blow, 
As she goes, inspired by a twilight dream 
Which she and the yuccas know. 

87 



Songs While Wandering 

For down in her deepest soul she feels 
She must not, she cannot fail. 
She dare not see them ashamed of her . 
Those ghosts on the Santa Fe trail, 

Colorado. 



88 



If a Robin Sang To-day 

If a robin sang to-day 
I would want to die. 
Dare I listen to his song 
Underneath this sky? 

He would bring a little breath 
Of an English way 
Carpeted with falling leaves 
On an Autumn day. 

Ripening berries on a hedge . . , 
Bracken in a glade . . . 
Slumbering water-lily pools 
Where the Summer played. 

89 



Songs While Wandering 

And the burden of his tale 
In my ears would be, 
"Little lost dreams lie along 
English lanes for thee. 

"Thou art half a world away . . 
Haste thee homeward then! 
Take thy share of Peace and find 
Those lost dreams again." 

If a robin sang to-day, 

I would want to die. 

I who dare not hear his song 

Underneath this sky. 

November iith, 1918. 



90 



"In the Valley of the Shadow '' 

{To the Thought of my Mother which held me 
safe.) 

Sink down my head 

And touch her breast. 

Life IS out-worn 

And every dream distrest. 

Her eyes are wet . . . 

Sink down, sink down . . . forget! 

A little way to journey 
Down pale days 
Towards a paler night 
Of fainting purple swooning to the Light 
Where still her eyes are bright. 
91 



Songs While Wandering 

Sink down my head! 

Thy smallest dream is said. 

Thy life was just a breath 

Made hazardous by pale persistent Death ; 

And yet . . . 

God and thy mother met 

Quiet in the night, 

And no one knew what passed 

Until the light 

Gave thee to life at last 

And showed her privileged to hold thee fast. 

Sink down upon her breast. 
Gone are thy dreams distrest! 
Her prayers for thee were blest. . . . 
He granteth thee this rest. 

St. Louis, 

October, 1918. 

92 



To One Faithless 

My lonely lute lies on the floor. 
How should I bend to pluck a string 
Or hide my suffering while I sing 
A song you care to hear . . • no more ! 

How should I bend to pluck a string 
I who have never heart to blame 
Your strange wild tale of whispered shame 
That stole the joy from everything! 

My lonely lute lies on the floor. 
This charge upon my soul I lay, 
To hush until God's Judgment Day 
A song you care to hear ... no more! 
93 



A Ranch 

In the darkness over the prairie 

The wind is howling 

As if lost souls were moaning 

The pity of their punishment. 

Now and then 

The house dogs bark at the coyotes 

Which prowl outside. 

It seems very far away 
From everything. 
And I . . • 

I am ridiculous to-night. 
For I sit by a fire of logs 
94 



A Ranch 

And stare into the embers; 
Seeing pictures through misty eyes 
Of London town 
And its streets 
And its lights 
And its people. 

fVyoming. 



95 



Judas 

Somewhere he wanders underneath the skies 

Restlessly, 

With lips all tortured by the kiss he gave 

In lone Gethsemane. 

And that remorse which drove him to his grave 

Stares from his fixed dark eyes. 

Could there indeed be rest 

For one whose soul was slain 

That moment when he saw his Master stand 

Fettered beneath the olive leaves? 

The very silver of the moon brings pain 

Of thirty cursed pieces in his hand, 

96 



Judas 

And grieves 

A wild eternal aching in his breast. 

Ever he sees 

Twelve chosen men 

Journeying by the Master's side 

To Nazareth. 

And ever yearns to hear That Voice again, . • • 

Catching his breath. 

A sound ... it is the olive trees 

That murmur death. 

Self-slain and unrepentant he hath died. 

Somewhere he wanders underneath the skies 
With tortured lips that dare not pray. 
And now God's chosen ones are gathered in . . . 
Why does he stay? 

Was his of God's whole world the greatest sin? 
Shall Heaven's gates be shut and he away? 
97 



Songs While Wandering 

It could not be! 

Christ could not let it be! 

On earth He loved him so. 

Lo! at the last he comes, 

And . . . mystery! . . . 

Wfth new Light living in his eyes. 

On paths of pain 

He who was self-slain 

Hath found his soul again. 

Stand back ye lesser tempted ones 
Who throng the Judgment Throne. 
And know 

That this is he who by much woe 
Hath striven to atone. 

"Master! . . . unworthily 
I come once more to Thee. 

98 



Judas 

From deepest Hell to deeper I have passed 

To reach Thy Heaven at last. 

O hear the prayer 

Of Judas . . • Thy betrayer, 

And pity me!" 

Ye souls who in His Presence move, 
See how the God-Man leans in Love 
To one who came 
With knowledge of his shame. 

"Judas! . . . take thy appointed place 

With the Eleven before My Face. 

Forgotten is Gethsemane 

And those lone heights of Calvary, 

Long didst thou stay. . . . 

Long have I yearned for thee. 

This My Eternity 

99 



Songs While Wandering 

All incomplete would be 
With thou away." 

Once more he sees twelve chosen men. 
In adoration holds his breath 
To hear that long-loved Voice again : 
"Ye Twelve who followed Me. . . . 
Come, let us dream of Nazareth !" 



lod 



For Both of Us 

Sometimes I think that you will come 
To find me when I am not near. 
I who have watched the dragging hours 
And waited through a soul-sad year. 

So, little dreaming what has chanced, 
My Life, returning to his place. 
Will never realise how close 
He came to seeing your loved face. 

And I shall deem some envious fate 
Is holding back my glorious day; 
And I shall wonder why my God 
Denies the bliss for which I pray. 
lOI 



Songs While Wandering 

And yet deep in your daring eyes 
Once, once I saw a vision clear 
How it were best for both of us 
You should not come when I am near. 



I02 



To the Leicestershire Tigers' 

{Fallen J May zrd, 191 7-) 

If in the next life or the next there be 
A starting of our quarrels all again, 
May Fate give task of leadership to me 
And let me find the souls of these dead men. 

Fontaine-les-Croisilles. 



103 



Salt Lake City 

In far-off England at my father's knee, 
I used to sit and hear 
Thy almost whispered name 
As if some mystery 
Enshrouded thee. 
And now and then there came 
Stranger men 
Preaching persuasively 
Of their fair temple built beyond the sea. 
And when they left again, 

Some well-known village face would disappear 
To make the neighbours talk mysteriously. 
104 



Salt Lake City 

Little did I know 

A day would bring 

My steps to such wide wandering 

That I would go 

Beneath those very skies 

Where Salt Lake City lies. 

The childish folly of unfinished fears 
The thought of thee 
Found at my father's knee 
In bygone years! 

When I return and neighbours speak thy name, 
They will wait eagerly 
To hear from one who came 
Into the Mormon homes as guest; 
Who had the privilege to stand 
105 



Songs While Wandering 

And speak an earnest message from his land 
Within the Tabernacle of the West. 

And when my tale is ended, they will see 
That thou indeed art wrapt in mystery. 
For who can solve 

How thou wast built so wondrously? 
And who that lives on earth can solve 
Thy overwhelming kindness unto me? 
May, 1918. 



106 



At the Last 

And then at last the night will come 

When you and I 

With cold hearts journey home. 

Stay close beside me in my narrow bed. 
For even though we lie 
Among the heedless, the forgetful dead • • • 
I shall remember every word you said. 

And when the Spring breathes o'er my mound 
Its magic impulse, year by year, 
A sweet uneasiness shall steal 
Down through the damp dark ground, 
107 



Songs While Wandering 

Until I feel 

All that it means to have you lying near. 

So shall I stir uneasily 
As when they sleep excited children do; 
And fall to musing on eternity 
Spent all in loving you. 



io8 



Glory 

He did his share in foreign lands. 
At home she played an equal part. 
The scars that show upon his face 
The hidden scars upon her heart. 

November 1 1 /A^ 19 1 8. 



109 



Fire-flies 

Can It be one short month ago 
That we stood, you and I, 
In a flower garden 

Where the early roses were blossoming? 
I seem to remember 

How they trembled in the creeping dark 
And swayed towards each other 
Like little lonely lives. 
And how the grey moths . . * 
Ghosts of love-slain souls • . • 
Fluttered to the moon 
In pairs; 

Whispering forebodingly 
IIO 



Fire-flies 

Because Time flies so fast. 

(Did they hear our farewell, I wonder!) 

And now the light is fading from the cotton- 
fields 
Where my life too is lonely 
In a land far from that garden. 
Rows of straight strong maize 
Run down to the river 
With rustling leaves, 

And waken the frogs that they may croak 
The same song which the roses know. 
Night trails through the wayside peach-trees 
Her folds of velvet black 
Fragrant with scent of river herbs. 

And then they come . • . 
Fireflies 

III 



Songs While Wandering 

Like living opals 

Drifting from Fairyland 

With little lifted wings. 

(Opals are luckless stones, they say; 

But if only you were here 

And I could set these flickering lights 

Among the splendour of your hair, 

How envious they would be 

Of that immortal brightness in your eyes!) 

So through the dark they flicker on, 

Like little jewel lanterns 

Lit by Love 

And sent to seek some wandering one 

Who for awhile in far-off lands 

Has lost his way. 

And they will search unceasingly 
(Heart! what a quest Life is!) 

112 



Fire-flies 

Till in some quiet dawn they die • . . 
To light their little lamps 
No more. 

Can it be one short month ago 

We said farewell where roses sway? 

And has my heart such longing then so soon ! 

Ah! little floating flies, 

Why do you flaunt your opals in my eyes? 

Luckless indeed am I who seem to be 

A million miles away 

From that small garden where I know 

The moths are fluttering foolishly 

In pairs of ghostly grey. 

• •••••• 

To-night, to-night, I wonder what new fears 

Forebodingly 

They whisper to each other and the moon. 

Tennessee. 

113 



Rocky Mountains 

From my small island home across the sea 

Kind Fates have carried me. 

And God has given 

Permission that I come 

Unto a western place 

Where almost He allowed 

His earth to touch His Heaven. 

My heart is cowed 
And I am stricken dumb. 
For in a mist of mighty majesty 
114 



Rocky Mountains 

I seem to see 

The Master Mountain-Maker, face to face. 

And now I wonder why 
This punyness called "I" 
Dare stand beneath His sky. 



"5 



Peace 

{To Arthur. Fallen . . . July i^th, 1916.) 

To think, to think how I have Rooked on Death 
With all these tired men, 
And lived until a day that brings us back 
To take up Life again! 

(I know a step that was too tired to comCe 
On safer paths than mine he journeyed home.) 

To think of all the tales we have to tell 
Throughout the coming years; 
And how the listeners will reward our pain 
With sympathetic tears! 
116 



Peace 

(I know one tale that sighs eternally 
Among the whispering leaves of Picardy.) 

To think, to think that this at last is Peace, 

And that we may forget 

Our finished agony, and only dwell 

On coming joy . . . and yet • . . 

(O little heart asleep in Picardy, 
Would I might share thy Perfect Peace with 
theel) 



117 



To One Claimed 

And night will come, and nights 
When you will only be 
A little hidden thought 
In a soul across the sea. 

And day will come, and days 
When other eyes will seem 
To answer in your own 
The earnest of myi dream. 

And maybe you will love, . . . 
Yet shall you ever be 
A little hidden thought 
In a soul across the sea. 
ii8 



The Far-off Isles 

Oh ! I have watched the waves with weary eyes 
And stood for many a day upon the strand, 
For fear that I may miss the fateful hour 
That sees my homebound treasure galleons land. 

To far-off isles I sent them long ago, 
And now, I wonder now if winds were fair. 
For they were laden deep with all the dreams 
And every fervent hope my soul could spare. 

Yet day by day the sad insistent sea 
Moans out a mocking message in my ear, 
And sighs a premonition of the fate 
That keeps my good ships absent year to year. 
119 



Songs While Wandering 

One day some small surviving boat will 

come. . • . 
I see it all as plain as plain can be! 
With wild-eyed men to tell a tragic tale 
Of all my golden galleons lost at sea. 



1 20 



Experience 

The white road running by my door 
Towards the west ... it tempted me; 
And said that it would lead me out 
Into a world I longed to see. 

One day when I could not resist, 

I said farewell to every one 

And followed where the white road led 

Until it seemed to reach the sun. 

And so I came into the world 
Where Joy goes hand in hand with Pain. 
O little road! ... I understand. 
Now lead me swiftly back again. 

121 



Songs While Wandering 

My mother waits at home to hear 
If in my wandering all was well; 
And ah ! I think that she will guess 
That there are things I cannot tell. 

And I. . . • I shall be satisfied 

To leave my mother's love no more. 

Alas! the day you tempted me 

O white road running by my door! 



122 



My Wandering Soul 

Why should I care. . . . 

I who have borne from age to age 

So small a share 

Of that predestined agony 

With which the Eternal Plan 

Has burdened Man 

Since Life and Time began? 

Why should I care 
If on the page 

Where records of my soul's To-day are shown, 
Small happiness appears; 
And through these present years 
123 



Songs While Wandering 

My bitter tears 

Make dim a memory 

That some great gladness gave to me 

In far-off incarnations I have known ? 



On its long pilgrimage, 
My wandering soul 
Lives through a life again. . . . 
Another step towards its destined Goal. 
And dare I care 
While I can still discern 
How that the earth 
Pain-haunted though it still must be, 
Still holds the Beautiful as then; 
While I can learn 
This wisdom from my heart 
More confidently after each new birth, 
That bud, and leaf, and flower, 

124 



My Wandering Soul 

And earth, and sky, and sea, 
Together with my striving self 
Are all a part 
Of an Eternal Power? 

How could I care. ... 
Who in the summertime can stay 
Amazedly, 

And scarcely breathe to see 
The scarlet poppies challenging the sun 
So daringly. ... 
And hear them say 
(To him, or it may be 
To me) 

"Lo! thou and I are one"? 
I who can stand at eventime 
Where rustling poplars reach towards the sky, 
And hear them whisper as the stars go by 
125 



Songs While Wandering 

(Or maybe I) 

"We share with you a Heaven-planned Destiny 

And hold from age to age a Theme Sublime," 

A theme Sublime 

While all the jeons move. . • . 

The ever-living loveliness of Love. 

Why should I care? . . . 

At times half-consciously 

I seem to see 

Dim dead lives in which Love lived for mc. 

Comes now great Babylon 
Set with a thousand thousand towers 
Beneath a jewelled sky; 
And in the white dust of the street 
Before the sunbeams die, 
126 



My Wandering Soul 

The laughing dancing-girls on tiny feet 
Sway through the fading hours. 

See! there is one 

In whose glad eyes a gleam of violet light 

Mingles with black in harmony divine; 

The perfumed glory of her raven hair 

With one short added inch would touch the 

ground 
And those small feet which circling make no 

sound ; 
Her breasts are fairer than the blooms that 

shine 
Where lotus leaves are drifting in the night. 

Somehow, somehow I feel that she is mine. 
But • . . who am I ? 
A beggar with a yearning day by day? 
A stranger princelet passing by, 
127 



Songs While Wandering 

Seeing her beauty and compelled to stay? 
• • • • • 

My vision passes too, and will not say. 

And here is Egypt with her palace walls 
Placed ponderous stone on stone by bleeding 

hands 
Of captive peoples dragged from foreign lands. 
Beneath the lash they labour, and their eyes 
Have Fear and Hatred striving in them ever. 
Yet undreamed Beauty glorifies 
These pain-placed halls, 
And Love is throned securely in the land. 

Along the sacred river 
There is a guarded place 
Where marble steps lead to a bathing pool 
Built for the proudest queen 
The pyramids have seen. 
128 



My Wandering Soul 

See, while the early day is cool, 

Approaches slow with stately pace 

A numerous attendant band. 

White-robed maidens flower-garlanded. . • . 

Egyptian nobles stepping solemnly 

By some high courtier led. . . . 

And from the Tiber's banks, stern men 

Who follow far 

Their master's rising star, 

And now must fret their soldier zeal 

Impatiently 

At his delay; 

Longing to march away 

And fight Rome's wars again; 

So stern they will not see 

Voluptuous glances which the maidens steal 

Inviting them to stay. 

129 



Songs While Wandering 

Giant Ethiopians carry high 

The royal litters wherein lie, 

Clothed in amazing majesty, 

The noble Roman Antony 

And she 

Who shares with him his Destiny. 

Play sackbut, flute, and psaltery! • . • 

Divinest Cleopatra passes by. 

There is a hush while all the followers stand. 

The lowered litters lie upon the ground; 

And here and there, a sleepy crocodile 

Roused by the sackbut's sound, 

Crawls from the river bed 

And lifts its head 

To stare around. 

As hand in hand the lovers go 

Along the holy Nile. 

130 



My Wandering Soul 

The Roman leans more close to breathe a word 
Like one who by some deep desire is stirred, 
And Mighty Egypt answers with a smile. 

Somehow, somehow I know 

That I am near. 

My lips can almost frame the word he said. 

Did I then hear? 

Am I a soldier standing by? 

One of those slaves who held the litter high? 

Or . . . great gods pity me 

For my impiety! 

Am I . . . can I be 

No smaller soul than he 

Who wakened Beauty from her wantonry. . • . 

Beloved of heaven! . . . ill-fated Antony? 

Why does my half-glimpsed vision flee? 
131 



Songs While Wandering 

How many lives have sped 

Until I reached to-day? 

How often have I slumbered with the dead? 

Ah, who shall say! 

Why should I care? . . . 

In some religious building must I kneel 

And make my frightened prayer 

Where righteous priests prate of eternity 

As if they held the very key 

To Heaven's own Plan in its entirety; 

For this or that sin, daring now to tell 

Of One All Merciful and Just condemning me 

To endless Hell? 

Or shall I stay 

Silent at times with Him alone 

And say: — 

132 



.My Wandering Soul 

"O Thou Who set my soul 

Upon its way; 

And didst ordain 

That for committed sin 

I should atone 

By measured pain 

When other lives begin, 

I know that Thou wilt hear 

While now I pray. 

"From little hour to hour 
My wandering soul draws near 
To its long-promised Goal. 
O Thou Eternal Power, 
Speed then the Destiny 
That leads me back to Thee. 
And when To-day's swift life is gone 
133 



Songs While Wandering 

To shadowed pasts like Babylon, 

Stay close to me 

In life or lives where I must journey on. 

O Thou Who set my soul upon its way I" 



134 



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